


The One In Which She Takes His Hand

by The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: F/M, Halloween Challenge, Prompt Fic, Reylo Writing Den
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2020-04-24 19:02:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19179484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat/pseuds/The_Artist_Formerly_Known_As_SatCat
Summary: In fulfillment of the following prompt for the Reylo Writing Den:"I’ll be your slaughterhouse, your killing floor, your morgue and final resting, walking around with this bullet inside me like the bullet was already there, like it’s been waiting inside me the whole time." - "Wishbone", Richard Siken





	The One In Which She Takes His Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [murakamism](https://archiveofourown.org/users/murakamism/gifts).



> ***This is a reposting of a deleted fic.***
> 
> Hey what's up some people have tracked me down to ask about some fics I wrote that they missed when I killed my account. By request, I am reposting some of them. I won't be checking for comments or anything else on them, since I don't really participate in the fandom much anymore.
> 
> Anyway, enjoy these in good health, and be kind to each other in the comments ok?!
> 
> ~(TAFKA)SC

  


The world stopped.  
  
_“You know the truth. Say it. Say it.”_  
  
The world spun wildly.  
  
_“They were nobody…” I whispered, utterly exposed and alone._  
  
_“You’re nothing… but not to me. Join me. **Please.”**_  
  
It’s sheer madness, what I’m considering, let alone that I’m considering it in the midst of a pile of dead bodies, the world teetering precariously on its axis, the foundation beneath my feet buckling and pitching in a frantic bid for an equilibrium that none of us will find here.  
  
And yet…  
  
And yet, all I can think of is Leia’s face, exquisite in its noble agony, at learning that her son is dead; one more burden on shoulders that already carry so much, and one that she would have to carry alone. After all, Finn knows the _facts_ of Ben’s parentage, but not the _truth_ of it. How could he? He doesn’t know what it’s like to have parents who failed you… not like Ben and I do.  
  
Sometimes, I envy Finn’s innocence.  
  
I know exactly what I must say to this man who is begging for (my) salvation. Part of me wants to believe that he’s pleading for me to be his lifeline to the Light… and if anyone asks me why I went this way, that’s probably what I’ll tell them.

The rest of me knows that he’s not coming back, not like this, and this is a Grimtaash’s Gambit, the only move left on the board before declaring _shah-tezh._  
  
(Of course, that is precisely what has happened — another irony, for a later time, when I will ponder how all of this went so magnificently wrong.)  
  
I am, in my bones, a scavenger. This is Jakku’s legacy. The scavenger who survives knows when to leave a wreck behind, when it costs more than it will be worth in the end.  
  
I am, in my heart, a curator. This, too, is Jakku’s legacy. The curator knows the names and stories of each little piece of their lives, from the detritus to the heirloom, and values the first as much as the second.  
  
My bones tell me to flee; that this is a dead wreck that will destroy me as well.  
  
My heart tells me to stay; that this is a piece of the galaxy under my care, mine to protect and cherish.  
  
Will it really cost more than it is worth in the end, if the only cost is myself? I am my own, and belong to no one, but I am, as he has so rightfully pointed out, nothing. The feral child of filthy, alcoholic junk traders.  
  
He’s looking at me, his chin trembling, his hand swathed in the role that is already poised to come between us. I want to beg him to take the glove off again, but I’m in _his_ world now, and I know it will not happen.  
  
When I exulted to myself on that stormy night that we would never be alone again, I hadn’t realized just how true that would be. We will never truly be alone, and because of that, he will never allow himself to be vulnerable again, not like he was.  
  
Not like I am.  
  
I can barely breathe for the blunt point that has lodged itself in my heart. I reach out, desperate for something to hold on to, and he advances. Whether he understands my distress or is merely availing himself of it, I can’t bring myself to ask.  
  
Before he can take my hand, the ship shudders and pitches violently, and everything goes black.  
  
When I wake, he lies there, unmoving to my blurry vision. I lever myself over to him, across the floor, and I check for signs of life before remembering that I have the Force at my disposal. He is merely unconscious, I realize, and I sink back to the floor in relief.  
  
I call the saber to me from where it lies, and clip it to my belt. I could leave. He is unconscious. I could leave, and be spared the pain that is surely to come, the ways in which my love will be twisted… has already been twisted. _I_ would be there to comfort Leia, when he is inevitably killed.  
  
My moment is lost, my fate sealed, when several things happen at once. He jolts back to consciousness, immediately pushing up off of the floor, and his eyes rove until they find me. The lower half of the late Supreme Leader and his singed golden robes tilt out of the chair, making a dull, fleshy thud against the floor. A nasal voice behind us is near histrionics, and we are no longer alone.  
  
“What _happened?!”_ the conniving red-haired man, the one whose presence in the Force is dark, oily, and cold, barks at Ben. His icy blue eyes pierce me, raking the wounds that I already carry, forcing me to bleed a little more.  
  
“Our Supreme Leader is dead, and here you are, lying next to that Resistance whore…”  
  
His hand moves toward his blaster, sneering something about _high treason,_ and before I can consider what is happening, his hands are scrabbling at his throat as he raises up, up, up. His blaster clatters to the floor and discharges, red screaming toward Ben, then careening off to one side.

I can see nothing, hear nothing… but I can _feel…_ rage, jealousy, contempt surging all around me, seeking a conduit… seeking a sacrifice.  
  
Distantly, I know Ben is standing, wide-eyed, dismayed. I know he is waving wildly at me, shouting my name, his voice cracking. I can feel his terror and despair.  
  
None of it registers until the face of the red-haired man is close enough to kiss, his pale features arranged in a mask of shock, his eyes fixed in horror, his body held stiff.  
  
It is only then that I feel my teeth are bared; only then that I see white-knuckled fingers, calloused and rough from the Jakku desert, clutching my saber, a red-haired body impaled on the blue blade. I thumb the switch, and the blade disappears. Another body added to the heap. More blood trickling out of the wounds that graze my soul.  
  
“Rey, what—?”  
  
“He was going to kill you.” The sharp crack in my voice, like the vibro whips of the dead Praetorians, comes as a shock, and my words slice clean to the bone. He’s not a fool, so why is he pretending not to understand?  
  
Is he afraid of me? ( _Should he be?,_ I wonder. _**Let** him be,_ the whispers snicker. _Let the fear he sought to sow reap him a bountiful harvest._ )  
  
“That’s my burden to bear,” I say, with a shake of my head. And it’s true; my heart is mangled and bleeding from what I’ve just done, the shrapnel lodged in my chest, but that is the nature of the choices I have made.  
  
“No, I won’t let you bear it alone.” He extends his hand again.  
  
“That’s not your choice to make.”  
  
I take his hand.  
  
He is quieter, now. “Tell me what you want. I’ll give you anything.”  
  
My eyes are watering, and I shake my head. What I want, he will never give me. I can see what we will have, in all of its naked glory, but… even when he is buried completely inside me, I won’t have _him._ He is ascendant, now, and while he is there for the whole galaxy to see, consuming as he is consumed, there will be nothing left for me. I burn with shame for wanting him, knowing that he does not know how to be with his equal, knowing that he will tempt me with vulnerability, but never share.  
  
This is how it will go: I will chase him, the two of us spiraling further down. I will take the wounds, will be the one to bleed, Light leaking out, staining the Darkness. He will promise to make it up to me, but I already know that if he’s going to make it up to me, I will have to keep going further down.  
  
_Now I know how it feels to be torn apart,_ I think, as we leave the throne room, my hand engulfed by the role that has already come between us.

  



End file.
